“Him?” I ask, baffled.
“Not every instrument has to be feminine,” he says, and there’s a tiny smile that quirks onto his lips that lifts his features completely.
I look at the instrument. “It is feminine in Russian. The word, I mean.”
The smile tugging at his lips seems more sincere. “It’s masculine in French.Violoncelle.” He watches me warily as I pick up the cello with as much care as he took with his words, and he looks away only to lead me from the stage into a quiet back room.
He opens up a case for the instrument, and I carefully place it inside.
“You played very well,” I say while the man locks up the case.
He pauses again, looking away from me and toward the door, like he expects someone to be standing there. I look, but no one’s there.
“Thank you,” he says with the lack of grace of someone who seems entirely unused to accepting compliments. “Do you play?”
I shake my head. “No. My sister played violin. I had to listen to her horrible practice sessions. But my parents made me play sports instead.” I let out an awkward laugh, and he offers me an equally strained smile. “My name is Ilya.” I extend a hand to him.
Is this flirting?
Am I truly flirting with a man who looks half my age?
He blinks at me, hesitating before taking my hand in a grip that’s tentative — but it lingers, too. “Micah. It’s nice to meet you, Ilya,” he says shyly.
This should be the end of our interaction. There is no reason for me to remain here, no reason for me to spend more time with some young man who looks like he’s on the verge of drowning.
But I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts; I don’t want to fall into more nightmares.
I might not be able to fix my own hurts, but the ones in his haunted eyes?
That seems a lot more doable.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink, Micah. We can politely clap when other people perform.”
Micah smiles at me, though his eyes flick to the doorway again.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask, following his gaze.
A small voice reminds me that no interactions are safe, that I need to stay on alert. Mostly, I’m disappointed by the idea that Micah might not want to stay with me.
He shakes his head quickly. “No. I…” He bites the inside of his cheek, then says, “There’s no one.”
I give Micah’s shoulder a squeeze before putting my arm near the small of his back, the way I’ve never dared with a man. I wait for his reaction—I know I would bristle if anybody treated melike that—but Micah doesn’t pull away. He’s a little tense, a little too aware, but he seems to come to some sort of conclusion after a moment because he cautiously rests back against me.
Is he scared because I’m older and bigger?
Does he sense the blood on my hands?
No. That’s silly. He’s a young man who probably has many others flirting with him. If he didn’t want my attention, he could say so. He could walk away.
I lead him to the bar, but of course my seat is long gone. We order drinks and head to a booth in a back corner instead, and I slide into the same bench as him.
“You do this a lot?” I ask him, my arm over the back of the bench the way I’d seen Kyran Winters do with Silvano Cresci. “Performing for strangers.”
I feel bolder than usual, which is a strange thought. I’m a man in his early forties. I am the leader of a small organized crime group. I have not been timid in decades.
Micah hesitates, fretting with a small paper napkin. “Not really.”
I wait, but he doesn’t continue.
